I heart, heart, heart Paris flea markets.
Not necessarily the ones at St. Ouen out by Clignancourt, where everything is a gagillion euros and completely prohibitive for poor writers like me, but the ones that set up along different intersections each week throughout the city.
And I tend to be drawn to the same things, items that are relics of our past and no longer used — pocket watches, old-fashioned keys, antique books (ashamed to admit it, but I have a Kindle for want of space in my shoebox apartment), and typewriters like the above.
There is nothing quite like the brisk, staccato, snap, snap snapping sound of pressing down on typewriter keys.
There’s also something so retro and nostalgic about the necessity of having to slide the carriage cylinder back to the start of the document in order to continue on to the next line, don’t you think?
A fluidity in the movement that gives the writer the sense of continuity that the depression of the “Return” button just doesn’t afford…
Typewriter, I’m glad I once had the pleasure of knowing you…something the young, digital native kidlings will never know…